


Nightmares

by SeaweedWrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Almost Pre-Slash if you Squint?, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anthea is a Great PA, Despite What Sherlock Thinks, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort (kinda), Mycroft Character Study, Mycroft Really is a Good Brother, Nightmares, Spoilers for entire series, sherrinford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13084956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaweedWrites/pseuds/SeaweedWrites
Summary: Mycroft often wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, one word on his tongue, his lungs gasping desperately for air.





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> I've really become obsessed lately on what makes Mycroft Holmes tick- why he does what he does. I have read some really great fics that delve deeply into his character. And while I can never do any of them justice, I thought it was an interesting idea to delve into. 
> 
> Be warned, there are spoilers for the entire series in here, so make sure you have watched through season 4 before you read this. 
> 
> This was just a little drabble like thing that I kicked out after a couple of days of work, so it has not been beta-ed or Brit picked. All the mistakes are my own. Mea culpa.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> XXXXX

 

 

 

In the darkness of his Belgravia flat, Mycroft was alone with his nightmares.

 

Even his ever faithful assistant, Anthea had no idea that he would often awake in a cold sweat, one word on his tongue, his lungs gasping desperately for air.

 

And if she ever noticed that some mornings that he looked less rested than the night before, she never said anything, of course.

 

The nightmares were never quite the same, though they all had the same inevitable outcome.

 

He failed.

 

Ultimately, despite all of his hard work, his sweat and tears- sometimes almost literally, he couldn't save his brother.

 

Sherlock would fall from the roof of St. Bart's, his head smashed open on the ground like a ripe watermelon.

 

Sometimes he would overdose and flat line in hospital, or he'd be found dead in a crack den or doss house- his last moments spent alone and desolate.

 

But of all of his nightmares, the absolute worst were when Mycroft would be there as his little brother died, watching the life drain out of those beryl eyes.

 

Even in his dreams, Mycroft could hear his heart shattering when Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes. “Why did you kill me, brother?” The detective would ask, while his lifeblood spilled onto the concrete below, staining Mycroft in permanent crimson.

 

Those were the nights when Mycroft knew that no more sleep would be coming before dawn's warm, amber light.

 

He would change his sweat soaked sheets, take a cold shower, layer on his armor, and pretend that he was ready for whatever came that day.

 

His co-workers figured that he was a workaholic, that was why he worked late every night, and often on the weekends as well. No one knew that it was because he dreaded going back to his flat. It was filled with reminders of the times when his brother, coming down from one drug or another stayed in the guest room.

 

All those reminders of the times when he was almost too late.

 

Mycroft had trained himself to not jump every time the phone rang, though it took every bit of his willpower. He knew the inevitable call would come, one day.

 

That day when everything he did was just not enough.

 

It was never enough.

 

His parents remained blissfully unaware, and that was how they must remain- he knew. This was a burden that he had to bear- it was his, and his alone.

 

Until the time that it wasn't.

 

Mycroft was, of course, suspicious at first. A doctor and former solider, recently invalided home from Afghanistan? A doctor could have easy access to drugs. If he caught this man enabling his brother, there wouldn't be enough of him left for his drunkard of a sister to identify.

 

But then, Doctor Watson did an amazing thing. He killed someone to save Sherlock, a person that he had known for barely 24 hours. Could this man actually be the one to keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow?

 

Mycroft didn't dare believe it.

 

But indeed, John did just that.

 

This small, unassuming little man was much stronger than he appeared, both physically and mentally. He had stood up to Mycroft the first time that they met- the British Government, the imposing official in the bespoked suits who cow-towed to no one.

 

And John Watson hadn't backed down an inch.

 

Mycroft was alternately frustrated and impressed by this.

 

As the years passed, the nightmares faded, just a bit. This doctor fellow was indeed a good influence on his little brother. He was still crass and arrogant, and an all around smartarse. But John tempered him, smoothed those rough edges, just a little bit.

 

When Moriarty came on the scene, and Sherlock had to disappear for 2 years, he was a different man when he returned- and not just because of the torture that he had endured. The time away from his best friend had made those edges jagged and rough again, perhaps even worse than before.

 

And then Mary happened.

 

John grieved. Sherlock went back to drugs.

 

And the nightmares returned- worse than before.

 

Now he could see Culverton Smith standing over Sherlock as he lay in hospital, the weaselly little man upping the dose flowing into his IV- but this time it wasn't saline, and there was no John to save him.

 

Mycroft was too late.

 

Always too late.

 

Just when Mycroft thought it couldn't get any worse, it did.

 

Eurus.

 

Just the name struck a cold, dead fear in his heart.

 

He had to watch while his sister- the person that Mycroft had fought for over three decades to make sure that Sherlock forgot- slowly tore his brother apart, bit by bit, room by room.

 

Mycroft had to stand idly by and watch- play the part of the instigator- the bad guy.

 

Insult John.

 

Insult Sherlock.

  
Ever the enemy, Mycroft was.

 

And then there was a dart- a quick spike of pain, and then, darkness.

 

He woke up in Eurus' old cell, with no idea of what happened to Sherlock or John.

 

This was a living nightmare- one he couldn't stop.

 

He was awake.

 

He was helpless.

 

And he didn't know if his brother was alive or dead.

 

Moments passed like hours. His phone had been taken from him, his pocket watch broken. He had no idea of the passing of time. He could have been down in that dungeon of a cell for an hour, or a week.

 

Each moment that passed, his thoughts became darker and darker, spiraling down into an abyss that had no bottom, no end. So many ideas passed his mind of what could have happened, so many ways Eurus could have killed them- slowly, painfully, tormentingly.

 

When the door to the cell opened, Mycroft cringed, bracing for the worst.

 

Until he saw that it was the ever dependable Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and a few police men, guns drawn, until they saw that he was alone.

 

Mycroft would deny until his dying day that his legs finally gave out from under him when he heard Lestrade say “We got her. Your brother and Doctor Watson are a bit shaken up, but they are fine.”

 

The world went black.

 

When Mycroft woke up, from a blissfully nightmare free rest, he was in his own bed- wonderful, faithful Anthea by his side.

 

“The doctors checked you out. You are exhausted and a bit dehydrated, but otherwise fine. A bit of bed rest and some fluids and you will be back to yourself in no time.”

 

“And.. my brother?” A pause. “And Doctor Watson?” It wasn't that he really cared much for John Watson's well being, other than the man was one of the only good influences in Sherlock's life.

 

Mycroft was purposefully excluding himself from that category.

 

As much as Mycroft had always had Sherlock's best interests at heart, what he did was often counter-intuitive and managed to instead push Sherlock further away from him.

 

But if it kept Sherlock safe, it was a necessary evil, Mycroft figured. He would play the part of the arch enemy, the evil older brother. As long as Sherlock was stayed alive.

 

“John was a bit hypothermic from his time in the well. He's recovering at Baker Street temporarily, where Mrs. Hudson can take care of his daughter while he convalesces. Sherlock was looked at- albeit reluctantly. Physically he is fine. Mentally, he went through a lot, but he has a support structure at Baker Street. He'll get through this.”

 

“Thank you.” Anthea, who was well attuned to his bosses' moods and meanings, understood that he needed a bit of time to himself.

 

The door clicked silently behind her. Mycroft stared out into the nothingness of the room for a bit, his mind flitting between a thousand things at once.

 

So, Doctor Watson was back at Baker Street. Mycroft wondered if that would turn into a more... permanent arrangement. There was little left for John at his current flat.

 

He knew how much John payed in rent, and that it would be hard for the man to afford both raising a child and paying the bills alone. Moving back to Baker Street was a practical choice- there would be built in child care with the landlady, and Sherlock- despite everything that Mycroft thought he knew about his brother- actually cared for his goddaughter like she was his own.

 

Mycroft made a mental note to plant the idea of staying at 221B Baker Street in the doctor's head- though he had a feeling that the seed had already taken hold. It would behoove both of them to be under the same roof. They kept each other safe, it seemed.

 

His eyelids felt like lead, and he blinked a couple of times. Perhaps Anthea was right. A bit of rest might do him good.

 

After everything that had happened, he had to believe that things were going to be better from now on.

 

Mycroft drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

It seemed that the nightmares were, at last, over.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know I've been pretty quiet for the second half of this year. I have not been idle, I promise. I now have 3 huge multi chapter stories going (I had not intended for that to happen, but it is what it is), as well as a series of drabbles that I will probably start posting up soon.
> 
>  
> 
> I am really hoping to start posting in earnest at the start of next year, so I hope you all look forward to that!
> 
>  
> 
> I hope everyone has a great whatever holiday you celebrate!


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